


La Javanaise

by somepallings



Category: The Shape of Water (2017)
Genre: Dima doesn't like pop music, F/M, clandestine meetings, dissolute barflies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-28 20:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13911795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somepallings/pseuds/somepallings
Summary: Whether it pleases you or not,In dancing the Javanaise,We loved each other for the length of a song.





	1. The Meeting

She first saw him in a jazz bar. Not a very nice bar, but what bar was in Baltimore? He was sitting alone watching the band, sipping on a bourbon. He looked nice, she thought, careful and neat but not too prim. He had those cute little rimless glasses, and he looked like he had something to say. It’d been a while since she’d met a man with some conversation. He looked her way with the most piercing brown eyes, and she noticed he didn’t have a cigarette. She took this as a sign from the gods and sauntered over.

“Need a smoke honey?” she said, holding out her gold cigarette case. He raised his eyebrows as if he hadn’t expected this. He glanced at her other hand and smiled, “What’re you drinking?”

She held out her mostly empty glass and gave it a little shake.

“Moscow mule, if you’re buying”, she said.

He reached out and took one of her slimline cigarettes, lighting it with a match from a book in his vest pocket. For a woman’s smoke, it didn’t look so out of place in his fastidious hand. She sat down.

He held out another match, lit a cigarette for her, then stood up and headed towards the bar.

 

***

 

She was right, he had something to say. He liked live music of most kinds, classical in particular, jazz in second place. He drank Scotch by choice, bourbon by budget.  He wasn’t planning on staying in Baltimore for more than a couple months. He’d just moved here from Texas, he was working at that space lab across town, on some kind of top secret project that she assured him, laughing, she wanted to know nothing about, even as he was starting to apologise that he couldn’t tell her any more.

“I don’t even want to think about the kind of math you eggheads do in that place, so I positively forbid you to tell me any more. Not even if it explains why a Galveston man doesn’t speak like a Texan.”

He smiled, “Well, I’m not from Galveston originally”. He took another sip of his bourbon. “Anyway I haven’t started work yet. We’re still waiting on some people coming in from elsewhere-“

She leaned forward and placed a finger on his lips. “That’s plenty. If you carry on like that I’ll feel obliged to tell you my life story, and it’s terribly boring, I can assure you”. He smiled against her touch, reaching up to take her wrist and then carefully kissing the top joint of her index finger.

 

***

 

After that first night, she would meet him at his tiny apartment in the early hours of the morning a couple of times a week, since they both worked nights. They didn’t tell each other much that was personal, but they spoke about almost everything else. She was fine with that. She’d found in her life that no-one was as interesting as they seem once you break through that barrier of mystery. Anyway, the physical took up plenty of their time together. He made love the way he did everything, delicately but thoroughly, and with a particular care that she had never encountered in a man before. She was delighted to discover that he even wore sock garters, and that he pressed his own shirts and slacks as a matter of routine.

She didn’t want to know any mundane workaday details about Bob (Bobby, as she’d taken to calling him, and he hadn’t objected); she didn’t want to know his shoe size, the brand of hair oil he used or any of that crap. She wasn’t about to start tying his tie for him or asking him whether he was going to get that big promotion come the fall. She hadn’t even asked his last name.

 

***

 

He didn’t know a whole lot about popular culture, she learned, and she liked it when they sat in bed together afterwards and she could talk about the movie stars in the magazines she brought over. He didn’t have any records, (“I move around a lot, so why bother really?”) a fact which horrified her.

“Oh Bobby honey, how can you live? What do you listen to while you wash the dishes?”

He shrugged. “The radio. The news, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t use a whole lot of dishes really, by myself. I eat at the lab. Or I try to, the food isn’t uh… well it’s not exactly gourmet”.

So the next time she visited she cooked them a meal. Nothing fancy; fried cabbage and corned beef.

“You can take the girl out of Ireland…”

“Oh, you’re Irish?” he asked, eyebrows raised in that way that made him look _so_ innocent.

“Well, the girl’s grandparents really” she said as she set the plates down on his little table by the wall and sat down opposite him.

“I guess we’re all something in America honey. How about you? Where did your grandparents blow in from?”

“Germany. And it was my parents, really” he replied as he began to cut his corned beef into bite-sized chunks.

“Oh wow, they speak much English?” she asked him, tucking in herself.

“Uh, no, not a word” he replied, “I don’t speak to them very much these days”.

“Ditto”, she mumbled round a mouthful of food, “My folks ain’t looked me up since I was twenty, and I’m sure you’ll excuse a lady from saying how many years ago _that_ was. Life is all the better for it, don’t you agree?”

He looked a little sad as he replied, “I don’t know. I miss them sometimes”.

  
She patted his hand sympathetically and they finished their 10am supper in a companionable silence.

 

***

 

Nights she wasn’t working she still went to the bar, and she still danced with other men. Bobby didn’t like to dance, and she wasn’t used to depriving herself of her pleasures. She didn’t take any of them home, though she reserved the right to do so. She didn’t owe anyone anything, and she didn’t expect Bob to owe her anything either. Maybe he had other women, that’d be fine. She doubted it though, he didn’t seem the type. Still, he clearly wasn’t the jealous type either. He’d seen her once, from across the bar, and raised his glass in greeting. She’d worried that it would change things between them, that the green-eyed monster would ruin their easy balance, but he never said anything, and didn’t seem to be nurturing any stewing resentments either.

 

***

 

She lugged her clunky portable record player in the door by its ridiculously uncomfortable handle, a bag of records over her shoulder.

“Oh boy, was the boss _ever_ not pleased to see me trying to fit this all in my locker!” she huffed, spilling the records out over the couch and thunking the player onto the sideboard.

(They hadn’t discussed her job; night maid in a big hotel, deeply unglamorous but really the best a woman determined to live an unattached life could get these days. She had no real desire to shatter her lady-of-leisure aura and he hadn’t asked any questions after she’d so eloquently shut him up over his line of work.)

He stacked her collection back into a neat pile, a cigarette held tightly in the corner of his mouth, and thumbed through them.

“My goodness, you sure like this… Connie Francis, don’t you?”

“Oh, I love her. Hopelessly romantic. She stops my cold heart from icing over completely.” she said, coming to stand behind him and rub his shoulder as he looked through the bundle.

He held a record up and turned his head a little so he could see her out of the corner of his eye. “Stravinsky?”

“Yeah. I used to like the ballet”.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else from a girl who drinks Moscow mules”.

She laughed. “Hey, ol’ Igor is an American citizen now. As trustworthy as you or me”, she said, and kissed his cheek.

“Much more so, I’m sure”, he murmured, turning fully and pulling her into a proper kiss.

 

***

 

After they surfaced she put on _Connie’s Greatest Hits_ , the one with the photo on the cover of Connie wearing that stupid grey top hat and lilac gloves. Side B was her favourite. She lay flat on the small uncomfortable bed looking up at Bob, smoking and humming along languorously to _You’re Gonna Miss Me_ while he, sitting with his back to the headboard, smiled down at her and stroked her hair.

If there was an atmosphere, it was firmly punctured by the silliness of _Lipstick On Your Collar_ and he held his hands up in mute supplication. She hit him with a pillow and laughed, grabbing her hairbrush and mouthing along, while he comically held his hands over his ear, his face a comical effigy of pain. She got up and changed the record to the Princesses’ Round from the _Firebird Suite_ , poured them both another drink, and slowly got back into the bed.

 

She straddled him and sat back on his upper thighs, handed him his drink, clinked their glasses together and took a sip. She’d run out of ginger beer so she was drinking her spirit straight. He held her gaze (he just about could, at this distance, he was hopelessly and adorably blind without his glasses) and, without stopping to take a sip of his own drink, kissed her vodka lips.


	2. The Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I admit I went through hell  
> Didn't you my love?  
> Before I caught wind of you

_Knock knock knock_

She waited in the hallway for him to answer the door, clutching a brown paper package. She heard him moving around inside, fumbling with the door chain. The door opened and there he was in undershirt, boxers and socks, which was as close to naked as he really ever got. She gasped and he blushed a little. “Oh my. What if it had been someone else?”

He looked down and stepped back to let her in. “Oh, you know I don’t get many visitors”.

She stepped into the hall and he closed the door behind her, bringing them face to face.

“Well, as welcomes go it’s something I could get used to”, she whispered, slipping the brown package from her hand into his and kissing the corner of his mouth. She moved away into the main room of the apartment accompanied by rustling as he opened the parcel.

“Oh! Sandwiches!” she turned, holding her hands up in a ta-dah gesture. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“You got my favourite!”

 

***

 

As the last of the summer receded and the nights started to draw in, she often caught him looking past her almost absently, as if he had something on his mind and had forgotten she was there. Kind of unflattering. She snapped her fingers. He looked round and blinked,

“Sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?”

She laughed, “I was asking you whether you’ve had a chance to read that book everyone’s been reading all summer”.

 

***

 

They sat reading in silence, she had her feet in his lap. He was just in his undershirt and boxers, and she had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. _She_ was finally getting around to reading that novel everyone had been reading all summer, and he was reading the latest JD Salinger.

“Not a patch on _Catcher”_ , he murmured, turning the page. She snorted and, without looking up from _Ship of Fools,_ told him that she found Holden Caulfield to be an insufferable little shit with no perspective on life. He blinked at her, slightly astonished, and burst out laughing. He grabbed her book from her and held it up so she couldn’t reach.

“Aw, come on Bobby, give it back, it’s not my fault you’re in love with some stupid book-“, she laughed and they scuffled

“You have terrible taste, no literary knowledge and you should feel very bad about this-“

She grabbed for _Ship of Fools_ and fell, breathlessly laughing, into his lap. “Oh, you’re a cruel man, Bob”, she said “A mean and cruel individual and I’m never sharing another Twinkie with you ever again”.

He smoothed her ruffled hair and settled his glasses back on his nose. “Oh, I see, you insult my favourite books and then you taunt me with my one vice”.

She snorted, “One vice indeed. You’re a vicious creature and you can’t tell me otherwise”.

He sighed, “No more so than most, and a great deal less than some”. He got that preoccupied look again and handed her back her book. She rested her head on his shoulder and they resumed their reading, falling back into peaceful silence.

 

Later, in bed, as his mouth brushed softly past her ear, she whispered his name and was surprised to hear and feel him mouth “No”, in reply, “It’s not…” he turned away for a moment, screwing up his face as if something was hurting him.

“Please… just here, can you call me Dima?” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

“Of course. Of course I can”, she replied, pulling him closer and wondering what secrets this neat, conscientious little man was hiding.

 

They shared her Twinkies afterwards.

 

***

It’s not that she _never_ saw her own apartment anymore, hell, she was still here most days, but it was nice to have a change of scene. Apartment was really too grand a word for it; it was a single room in a boarding house, but at least she could get some privacy to read and to put her records on as long as she didn’t make too much noise.

On this evening at the start of October she was washing her unmentionables in a pail of hot water, smoking and listening to her records. She wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, her work, her friend’s art thing she was supposed to go to next week but that she might blow off to go see -

Bob -

Dima?

(She’d started thinking of him as Dee.)

Hm. Not a good idea to blow off a friend for something so ephemeral. Something with an expiration date, which she knew was coming even if she didn’t quite know when. The thought made her real sad.

Was this love, then? She’d been in love before, but it had been a messy and unpleasant thing, soured by jealousy on his part and growing distaste and indifference on hers.

She remembered she had to give the landlady an extra five dollars for the roof repairs. She’d need to sweet-talk a customer tonight and see if she could get an extra big tip.

She rolled her eyes. She was far too old and too sensible to be wondering if she was in love. It was all very well singing along to _Teddy_ in the mirror, but really, this was real life and she was _not_ a blushing teenager anymore. Still. She looked forward to seeing him. She’d miss him if she couldn’t see him anymore.

She held up the stocking she was washing and wondered why she was even trying, there was a damn cigarette burn in this one. She balled it up and chucked it at the waste basket. It missed. She snorted.

 

They’d talked about it once. He’d taken her hand and spoken her name, and said “I might have to go. Suddenly. I can’t explain, my work-“

She’d held up her other hand, “It’s fine. I told you. I don’t want to know about your work. I’m not here to tying you down”.

He hadn’t said anything, just held her gaze for a few long seconds.

She’d taken his hand in both of hers, “Let’s just enjoy this for what it is.”

He’d dropped his eyes and sighed, “Let me get you that list of books to reserve from the library.”

 

She took a sip of her drink. Neat vodka. She made a face, it was not good stuff. It was impossible to get good stuff these days. Not fashionable.

 

***

 

She’d never seen him so tired. When he finally opened the door, he looked so small and sad for a moment she just reached out and immediately took him in her arms. He put his hand on the back of her head as the door clicked shut, and murmured something unintelligible into her ear. She got the feeling he’d been halfway to convincing himself not to let her in at all.

“Whatever’s the matter, darling?”, she asked, pulling back to look at his face.

He paused, then said, “My work. It’s very difficult, and I’m under a great deal of stress. I can’t say any more”.

“No, of course not.  Let’s go and get you sat down”.

His apartment smelled heavenly.

“Oh, honey, you’ve baked a cake! Oh, you must let me try some”.

She skipped over to the breakfast bar where a beautiful-looking marbled bundt cake sat on a plain ceramic plate.

He sat down wearily at the table. “Of course, go ahead. Surely I’ve baked for you before?”

She glanced at him over her glasses and said, “No, you have not. You’re surely a man with hidden depths”, as she cut herself a slice.

He smiled wanly at her. “My goodness. I was sure I had. Where has the time gone?”

She cut him a slice also and poured herself a cup of black coffee from the still-just-hot pot on the stove.

“Where all the good things go. You must have a sweet tooth, I didn’t realise Twinkies were just the tip of the iceberg”.

She sat down opposite him and handed him his cake. He took it and took a fastidious forkful, carefully swallowing before saying, “You can’t have too much of a sweet tooth yourself. I’m not feeling so sweet.”

She melted a little, but she adopted a sceptical expression. She leaned forward, forearms on the table, lifting up a little from her seat, and kissed him on the forehead.

“That sounds an awful lot like self-pity, Dee. C’mere”, she said, sitting back and opening her arms. He moved around the table to sit on her lap, and she cradled him there. “You know I have a taste for the difficult things in life. Bitter and sour are OK by me”, she rubbed his back.

“But I like sweet things just fine, too”.

 

***

 

It really happened. She hadn’t honestly believed it, she realised. He was gone. No answer at the door, no answer on the phone. She knocked and waited, knocked and waited again. Nothing. Soon enough a sign went up say the apartment was up for rent.

That was what made her really realise he was gone. For a week or more she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d get a phone call, a letter, or that he’d turn up at her door to explain, to say goodbye. Stupid. He’d never asked her for her address.

She picked up the books he’d recommended from the library. She read them, and she wished he was there so she could tell him what she thought about them. Some of them were wonderful, but some of them were (to her mind) real stinkers, and she sorely missed the opportunity to tell him so. She’d never even gotten to hear his opinion of that book everyone was reading all summer.

She’s not broken, she’s just a little sad, sometimes. If she cried a little listening to _Among My Souvenirs_ or _You’re Gonna Miss Me,_ well, she’d always loved those silly sentimental songs. Her friends believed he was a rat who’d run out on her, and really, why try to persuade them otherwise?

She kept half an eye on the news, as the USA scrambled ever closer to space and then to the moon. She half expected to see him one day grinning from the back row of a newspaper photograph of triumphant scientists. She never did.

She hoped, wherever he was, he was happy, and she hoped more than anything that he thought of her sometimes. She hoped he occasionally heard a Connie Francis song on the radio, and that it made him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor sweet Dimka deserved better.
> 
> Writing this helped my heart, and I hope you liked it. 
> 
> I didn't really realise I was echoing themes of the film itself (bringing food, the portable record player) until I'd written it, so let's pretend it was on purpose and I'm terribly clever.
> 
> All the songs mentioned by name in this fic are absolute bops, so I recommend listening to them all.


End file.
